


The road to reunion

by Onomatopoetikon



Series: Salvation, redemption, reunion [3]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Comfort, Developing Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Kissing, M/M, Missing Scene, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Charles Xavier, POV Erik Lehnsherr, Post-X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), Sex, Slow Burn, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27740098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onomatopoetikon/pseuds/Onomatopoetikon
Summary: They both knew their paths would eventually lead them to meet again, but neither could have ever imagined that it would happen quite like this.This fic is written as a sequel to "The road to redemption", and follows the events of "X-Men: Apocalypse", told from both Charles' and Erik's points of views.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr & Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Series: Salvation, redemption, reunion [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981507
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This fic is the third installment in my series of X-Men companion fics. If you haven't already read "The road to salvation" and "The road to redemption", I sincerely suggest that you go back and read them first. While this story can be read separately, it contains references to scenes and exchanges in both previous stories, and I honestly think you will enjoy this story better that way.
> 
> As I publish this first chapter, Reunion is still not finished. Therefore, the fic will have no set update schedule, as I want to make sure it truly is finished before I publish the chapters. We're looking at about 25 chapters, though, so you have a lot to look forward to!
> 
> As for content warnings: This story is very canon compliant, so its general content warnings include just about everything you find in the movie. Examples include but are not limited to references to and mentions of depression, drug and alcohol use, violence, murderous intent and mind control. Please be advised and take care of yourself.

Erik had never intended on ever returning to Poland. He had certainly never planned on settling down there. Yet, here he is. 

He supposes that it is in some way the irony of life, but that thought does not anger him in the way it would have done ten or twenty years ago. Maybe it is simply because he has grown older; maybe there is something in the water here at the edge of Pruszków, but he is at peace. 

Somehow it is here, where his life was once so irrevocably altered, that his mind and his heart are both at peace. 

Of course, it was not exactly here, in this town, that he and his parents were caught and forced onto the train like cattle. This is Magda’s hometown, and now, strangely, it is his hometown as well. His, and hers, and Nina’s. 

Nina. 

The mere thought of her can brighten even the greyest of grey days in the factory. He has never loved anyone as fully and as unrestrainedly as he loves her, and there is nothing he would not do for her. When he is with Nina, he is more himself than he has ever been. Not Erik, not Henryk, and certainly not the Magneto he was twenty years ago. He is her father, and that is all that matters. 

He has a family. 

It is small, just the three of them, but it is all he needs. It is a simple life, but it is all he wants. 

Of course, there are times when old memories resurface: faded images of people he once knew, places he once visited. Travelling the world in search of Schmidt, or Shaw, or whatever name he used at any given time. Looking for mutants with Raven, trying to assemble a Brotherhood like the one he imagined. Ten years incarcerated behind glass, plastic and concrete, and the petty injustices committed daily by his guards there. He can push those images away, most of the time. They are memories of times that have long since passed; they are insignificant; they are nothing. 

Much more difficult to ignore are his memories of Charles. They do not resurface very often, but when they do, they stay with him for days, pulling on every moment he has ever spent in the other man’s presence. If it were only memories of chess games, or travelling the breadth and width of the States in a luxurious car looking for mutants together, he could have handled it. Pushed them away with the others. 

But his memories of Charles are not faded or frayed. They are as stark and vivid as if they were not memories at all, but rather reality, happening now. 

The first time Charles’ mind touched his, in the freezing dark waters of night. 

That night at the motel, from those days on the road, when they had to share a bed and Erik showed Charles for the first time what had happened in the camps. How Charles had held him through the nightmares that inevitably followed. 

Training together. Turning that damned satellite dish. 

Charles at the beach. A broken body in Erik’s arms. 

Then, ten years later, ten years ago, that night. That one night. Charles’ body once again in Erik’s arms but this time in a narrow bed, pressed tightly to his. The sounds he made. 

Charles’ face when he let Erik leave. 

Those are the memories that keep him awake at night. When all the world is silent, he wonders if he will ever hear Charles’ voice again. It is not _missing him_ , exactly, although a part of him does miss Charles. It is more that he is not finished with Charles. All the rest, he likes to think, is behind him. But Charles’ absence is like a presence, active, pulsing, and at those times when Erik almost loses himself to that onslaught of memories, nothing can break him out of it like Nina can. 

He is going home to her and Magda now; the factory horn is sounding the end of their shift. He shuts off his machine, takes off his helmet and the safety glasses, collects his belongings and leaves the comfortably metal-rich steel works with his co-workers. One of them pats his back. 

“Have a good night, Henryk.” 

“You too, Milosz.” 

He is one of them, one in their midst, one just like them. It is still, after so many years, a novel sensation. 

It is not a long drive from the factory to their little cottage. It is situated on the very edge of the forest, removed, but not isolated. 

Home. 

It is not merely a word, it is the feeling of belonging that comes upon him when he sees it, when he steps out of the little car. The sound of the hens clucking, the wind rustling the leaves of the trees ever so softly. The smell of woodfire burning in the fireplace and the soft light trailing in through the windows. He hears Magda’s soft steps just before she hugs him from behind, giggling with delight. 

“Hi, honey” she says, her voice warm and full of laughter as she kisses him. 

“Hi” he whispers, kissing her back. It is as though she is filled with light, and her light is brighter than that of even the sun outside. 

“Good day?” 

“Better now.” 

She hums with pleasure at this reply. 

“Where’s Nina?” he asks, longing for the second ray of sunshine in his life. 

“Out back. With her friends.” 

She is, and the sound of her laughter is like the trickling of a brook in the forest. Erik could stand there all day with his arm around Magda’s waist and watch Nina as she plays with the deer, talking to them, feeding them. 

Nina’s gifts – even Erik is more inclined to call them gifts rather than powers – manifested early. She was no more than three when it became clear that birds and rabbits were drawn to her not only out of curiosity, but because she wanted them to. She still cannot control it, does not know how she makes the deer abide by her will or eat from her hands, but she enjoys it so fully that Erik never wants to have to tell her to stop. The emergence of his own powers was never so thrilling, or so filled with joy, but with rage and fear and grief, and he cannot bear to think of her ever having to feel that way towards her gift. 

Of course, he cannot stand there all day, however much he wants to. But when night has fallen, and the dinner has been cleared away, Erik goes upstairs to tuck Nina into her bed. It is one of his favourite times of the day, when he gets to pull the curtains shut and sit down on her bedside. Some nights he tells her stories; others, like tonight, he sings to her. 

He never used to sing before. 

It was as if he did not have songs within him, but then, when Nina was born, the songs came back. As he sings to Nina now, he can hear his mother’s voice sing the same song to him, in the small room they once hid in. It is a melancholy song, not a lullaby at all, but a song of night and stillness. 

“Where did you learn that song, papa?” Nina asks as the last notes fade. Her voice is clear and her question frank; she does not sound sleepy at all. He tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. 

“I learned it from my parents” he explains. “And they learned it from their parents, and them from theirs. And one day… you’ll sing it to your children, too.” He boops her nose gently, trying to somehow illustrate the long chain in which they are both links. That, too, is a novel sensation. For so long, he thought he was the last link. That whatever his family had been, its history ended with him. Not anymore. Here Nina is, and one day, she too will remember a song from long ago, and sing it by another bedside. 

She smiles, briefly, then asks with the devastating curiosity of a child: 

“What happened to them? Your parents?” 

How does one answer such a question? He does not want to lie to her, but the truth is too horrible for a small girl just about to go to sleep. 

“They were taken from me” he says softly, reaching for one of Nina’s dolls which lies at the very edge of the bed, in danger of falling off. “When I was a little boy.” 

As he places the doll on her chest, easy to grab should she want to hold it, the light from the lamp on her nightstand shines on the six numbers permanently scrawled to his wrist. 

“But they’re still here” he resumes, putting his free hand over his chest. “Inside.” 

Then, he reaches over to the small golden locket resting over Nina’s heart. It opens with a tiny click, revealing two small portraits that he had once thought lost forever. 

“And here” he adds. “With you.” 

But Nina does not appear to take comfort from this. Her expression is worried, and there is a slight tremble to her lips. 

“Is someone going to take you away?” 

“Never” he says, and that word is a promise he will never, ever break.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm sorry to say that Reunion still isn't finished. I have not given up on the story, not in the slightest, but I got kind of lost in the all-consuming fandom that is MDZS/The Untamed, and honestly I'm still in pretty deep. Even so, I wanted to give you all a life sign and tell you that the story _will_ be written, and you _will_ get to read it, it'll just take time. I don't have an update schedule for you, but I do have this chapter and I hope you'll stick around for more.
> 
> I should probably also put a disclaimer here that I have no first-hand experience with anything similar to Charles' injury and/or disability. I've tried to do my research concerning the type of injury, transfer techniques, and how someone with similar disabilites might manoeuvre or use aids, or make other kinds of adjustments, but in case you notice that I've gotten something completely wrong, please tell me! I'll be infinitely grateful for your input, both on this chapter and future chapters.

Charles wakes up in his bed to a golden morning light sifting through his windows and the sense of contentment and purpose he has found almost every single morning these past seven or eight years. He sleeps well most nights and wakes up rested, and this morning is no different. Of course, he cannot help but grunt with the effort as he lifts himself up and transfers into the wheelchair, but it has been a long, long time since he resented it. Rather he encourages Hank to update the chair whenever he deems it necessary, and this is already his fifth model since they started the school up again. Lightweight and powered, and with a finetuned joystick steering system, it gives him more mobility than he could have ever hoped for when he was first injured. But it is not the chair that makes him smile almost before he opens his eyes each morning. 

It is his students. 

He takes care not to pry (at least not too much, they are in his care, after all) but it does not require him actually reading their minds to feel them there. Their presence in the house is like the hum of a beehive, and Charles finds himself continually awed, inspired and blessed by it. The school is currently in its eighth year and has already seen several students off into the world again; some after only a year or two, but others have been here almost since the beginning. They have all become like a sort of extended family to each other, and some, Charles knows, need that safety net more than others. Himself most certainly included, although perhaps only Hank truly realises this. 

And not a day goes by that he does not hear those words, spoken to him so many years ago. _We need you, Charles. Come and find us. Jean, Scott, Storm._

_And Logan_ , Charles adds in his own voice. He has not forgotten. Nor has he forgotten the events that led to where they are today, where mutants no longer need to hide in fear or shame – at least not in the U.S. – nor the two most significant people in bringing about this new order. _Raven. Erik_. Thinking their names stings, but not in the way it once did. He knows they are out there, and is certain that he will see them both again one day. Only, he had perhaps hoped that it would be sooner. Ten years have passed since then; _another_ ten years. 

But all those ten years ago he made a promise to Logan, and in a way, a promise to himself. He would start a school, and he has. He would find those who needs him, and he has. And although there should not be a list of priorities, and he should care equally about all his students, he is especially happy about Jean. 

Not only is she one of the names from Logan’s list, but she is also both incredibly powerful and deeply insecure. In truth, she reminds him a lot about Erik, with her vast and almost unexplored powers, but of course much less in control of them than Erik ever was of his. Although he would never admit it to anyone, Charles considers her presence here, at his school, as a sign that he is doing the right thing. 

This particular sunny day begins as most other days do, with a communal breakfast followed by morning classes and a communal lunch. It is not until well into the afternoon, at the very end of his last class, that something remarkable happens. 

Charles is teaching, reading aloud to his students from _The Once and Future King_ when, in the middle of a sentence, he sees three people in the corridor outside the classroom. One of them is Hank, and another a young boy unfamiliar to Charles. It is the third man, however, who causes Charles to do a doubletake and dismiss his class early. 

“Alex” he greets his former student, chuckling with surprise and pleasure at meeting him again. His smile is met by an even larger one from Alex, and Charles’ outstretched hand finds itself ignored in favour of a warm hug. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Ah, you too” Alex says. 

“You look well” Charles says as they part, his hand lingering at Alex’s arm for a moment. What he means to say is, Alex looks grown up, and at peace with the world. Still handsome, still fit, and with a confidence that makes him seem at ease with himself, rather than the angry cockiness Charles remembers from his youth. “It’s been a while.” 

“Yes” Alex agrees. “Not too bad yourself.” 

“Thank you.” 

Alex has moved back a little again, not away from Charles so much as returning to the side of the stranger. A teenager, Charles guesses, although most of his facial features are obscured by a gauze covering his eyes like a blindfold. Alex claps the boy on the shoulder and with a sigh, declares: 

“This is my brother, Scott.” 

Charles furrows his brows. It must be twenty years between the two brothers, Scott can hardly be older than Alex was when Charles first met him twenty years ago. But asking would be rude and pointless, so Charles refrains. 

“Hello, Scott” he says lightly. “Welcome to the School for the Gifted.” 

“Yeah” the teenager scoffs, “it doesn’t feel like a gift.” 

For an instant, Charles remembers all the mutants he has ever met, and how all of them have expressed the exact same sentiment. How many times has he not felt so himself – or did, at least? He smiles a little ruefully, not that Scott can see it. 

“It never does, at first.” Then he shifts his gaze to Alex. “I take it there is some similarity between your powers?” 

Alex nods. 

“Yeah, you could say that.” 

Charles remembers vividly Alex’s powers at the very beginning. How he had been so afraid of hurting others with the great and destructive forces, then out of his control, that he had had himself detained in solitary confinement. He remembers Alex’s fear holding him back from interacting with others, from opening up to them, from training, and look at him now. 

And look at his brother, with the same kind of powers, the same need for control, for help. 

Scott. 

_Jean, Scott, Storm. And Logan._

“Hank, what do you say we head outside?” 

Scott’s powers turn out to be every bit as spectacular and awe-inspiring as Alex’s are. The teenager tells him that the powers only manifested recently and he is clearly reluctant and insecure about using them – with good cause, as it turns out, since a mere two seconds long glance is enough to not only reduce the lawn to ashes but split a century old oak tree in half. It is astonishing, but also evident that Scott needs help. Even if he had not been Alex’s brother, Charles would have taken him in at once, but he is even more willing to do so as he strongly suspects that this must be the Scott Logan meant, and also because of Alex’s worry, plain to see under the thin veneer of cool, older brother.

They get the paperwork done and settle Scott into one of the rooms. One of the other teenagers is tasked with taking care of him, showing him the school and grounds and how things work around the place, and Charles asks Alex to stay for dinner. When Alex asks if he can stay the night, Charles is more than happy to arrange a guestroom for him. For the rest of that afternoon, he, Alex and Hank simply sit and talk. About the years that have passed and how they have been spent, about the school and the realisation of that old dream, and about common friends, both those lost and those still alive but far away. 

“Any news about Raven or Erik?” Alex asks, and Charles answers him truthfully: that he has no idea where they are, and that he does not intend to go look for them. 

He says nothing, however, about the infrequent and unsigned postcards Raven sometimes sends from all over the world, all of them relaying the same message: _all’s well_. Nor does he mention the one letter he received from Erik, years ago now, or the single line therein. _Charles, I have no one else to tell the news: I have a daughter_. 

They eat together with the students, after which Alex plays cards with some of the younger kids. Evening turns into night, the children all go to bed, and Charles decides to put in one last hour of work. Silence settles in the house, except for its usual creaking and cracking, and that steady hum of minds drifting off to sleep. 

He has been at it for almost two hours when he notices the house beginning to tremble. Tremble, yes, as though there is this tiny, continuous tremor running through every wall. The children upstairs begin to wake, their minds fearful and confused. Then, clear as if the words were spoken: 

_Charles. We need you upstairs_. 

Hank’s mind is calm but insistent, and Charles hurries out of his study. He cannot run, obviously, and he does not like to appear worried or stressed in front of his students – especially not when they are already afraid – but he wastes no time in getting into the elevator and up to the wing of the house which serves as student dorms. As he enters the corridor, it seems as though everyone is up, standing in the doorways and waiting anxiously. 

“Back to bed please, my darling” he tells one of the youngest girls, standing outside her room closest to the stairs. “Back to bed.” 

“She’s doing it again” another child whispers, the tone somewhere between complaint and accusation. Every child’s attention is focused on a room almost at the end of the corridor, and Charles knows whose room it is. From here, he can feel the trembling more strongly, and the lamps sway from their hooks in the ceiling. 

“Back to bed please, everyone” he repeats as he makes his way, deliberately slow, down the corridor. “Jesse, back to bed, please, come on now, spit-spot, back to bed.” 

Reluctantly, some of the students step back, withdrawing only hesitantly. Others remain still, and Charles’ next words are a little sharper. 

“Carrie Anne, come on now, back to bed.” 

Carrie Anne does return to her room, and the others soon follow suit. At last the corridor is empty, except for Hank who is already standing by Jean’s door, waiting. As he opens the door, Charles can hear the sound of heavy breathing from inside the room, but what’s more, he can feel the creeping terror. Jean is tossing and turning on her bed, apparently in agony, like any child caught in a nightmare – except for how the walls are trembling and fuming. 

“Never seen it like this” Hank says softly. 

“Nor I” Charles agrees. “Don’t let any of the children come this way.” 

He wheels himself inside as quietly as he can. The air is unnaturally, uncomfortably hot, and even through the dark he can see how the walls are smouldering with heat, as though they are somehow burning away. Meanwhile, Jean is still tossing on her bed, panting. He picks up nothing from her mind, and is not surprised by this because Jean’s is not really the projecting kind of mind, and she manages to shield herself even while sleeping. As he stops the wheelchair by the side of her bed, and leans in and calls her name in an attempt to wake her up, however… 

She lashes out at him, or her mind does. At once Charles’ mind is filled, almost invaded, by a shrill, shrieking sound, and he cannot keep it out. When he tries, the shrieking intensifies and now there are images, visions of explosions and raging fire, debris, destruction, humans burning alive, buildings collapsing, and in the midst of it all, a figure Charles has never seen before, human-like but alien, smiling with twisted benevolence. 

“ _ **Jean**_ ” his mind and his voice shouts back in unison, and the visions snaps, broken like an elastic band, as Jean finally wakes up. 

She is panting as though from exertion, and Charles finds himself panting too as he tries to wrap his mind around what just happened. 

“I saw the end of the world” Jeans says shakily, on the verge of tears. “I could feel all this death.” 

Charles struggles for a moment to find his voice and to make it sound calm and reassuring, which is the exact opposite of how he feels. This is new, unknown territory. 

“It was just a dream” he says, but he has barely finished the sentence before Jean shakes her head. 

“No, it felt _real_.” 

“I know” Charles says. “Your mind is the most powerful I’ve ever seen. It can convince itself-” 

“No, no” Jean cuts him off, “it’s not just the mindreading or the telekinesis, it’s something else. Some dark power inside, and it’s growing. Like a fire.” 

Charles blinks. The scorch marks on the wall have disappeared, as if they were never there, but- 

“I thought I was getting better” Jean continues. Her voice, which was ardent before, is now brimming with new tears. 

“You are” Charles says, firmly imbuing the two words with all the calm sincerity he can muster. “You will. You just have to be patient.” 

“No, no” Jean protests again. “You don’t know what it’s like to be afraid to shut your eyes! To be trapped inside your own head!” 

“Oh, I think I do” Charles replies softly. 

She looks doubtful, and he can understand why. To her, he is old and rock steady. He has not told her about what happened to him after Cuba, how the sound of the minds of the world overwhelmed him beyond imagination, and he does not intend to tell her about it tonight, either. But maybe he can tell her other things. 

“It wasn’t so long ago that I was plagued by voices, myself” he says, settling for vague but honest. “All their suffering. All their pain. Their secrets.” 

She takes his cue and almost nods before visibly deciding to entrust him with hers. 

“I’m afraid one day I’m going to hurt someone.” 

Her honesty breaks Charles’s heart. He wants to comfort her, reassure her, but he knows as well as she does that she has every reason to be afraid. Worse, he knows it better than she does, and he cannot tell her. 

“Lie back” he says instead. 

As she does, Charles puts the wheelchair into park and lifts his feet from the footholds of the wheelchair and places them on the floor. With a low grunt he heaves himself out of the chair and transfers onto the bedside. It is an effort, and even more so to keep his balance without a backrest or even armrests to support him, but Jean looks at him as though she truly believes that he can somehow make everything alright, and so of course he has to try. 

“Everyone fears that which they do not understand” he tells her. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears, and he leans forward, steadying himself with one hand on the bed so that he can reach out and touch her face with the other. He strokes her hair, as though she was his daughter, and not a student at his school. 

“You will learn to control your powers” he continues, “and when you do, you’ll have nothing to fear.” 

One single, silent tear runs down Jean’s cheek, but she presses her lips together and nods. 

“Good girl” he says. “Now, I know it might be difficult, but do try to go back to sleep. If you can’t, then go downstairs and have a cup of tea, and then try again.” 

“Okay” she whispers. “Good night, Professor.” 

“Good night, Jean.” 

He smiles at her, and then sets about to transfer out of her bed again. He shifts his weight, positions himself more on the edge of the bed, and then places one hand on the wheelchair seat, the other slightly behind him on the bed. He takes a deep breath, and pushes himself off the mattress and into the chair. He is aware that both Hank, who is hovering near the door, and Jean follow his every move, and he tries not to care, but he is still self-conscious about his impairments and how movements that were once so simple, gracious and flowing, are now a laborious set of steps where even the smallest miscalculation might end up with him flat on his face on the floor. He gives Jean another little smile though, and reverses the wheelchair. He is almost out of the room, with his back to the bed, when he hears Jean’s voice behind him. 

“Thank you, Professor.” 

He looks at her over his shoulder. 

“You’re always welcome, Jean. Sleep well.” 

Neither he nor Hank speaks until they have left Jean’s room, closed the door and have almost reached the elevator. The corridor behind them lies still and quiet; it seems that for now, the children will stay in their rooms. 

“Is Jean alright?” Hank asks as he calls the elevator. 

“I believe so. A bit shaken.” 

The elevator doors open with a ding and Charles rolls on in, Hank following. 

“I think we all are. Especially the youngest kids.” 

Hank presses the button for the basement, and although Charles had intended to go back to his study, he doesn’t. Hank is projecting, very clearly despite the various shields against Hank’s mind that Charles has put in place over the years, that there is something he wants from Charles. 

“It’s not them I’m worried about, though. It’s the older kids who’re giving her a hard time” Hank continues. 

“Children can be cruel” Charles concedes. “Even mutants. And when even Jean is scared of her powers, it’s little wonder that the others are, too. However…” 

“Yeah?” Hank prompts as the elevator dings again to announce their arrival into the basement. Charles, closer to the opening doors but with his back to them, reverses out into the corridor, causing the motion sensors to flick the ceiling lights on. 

“Her nightmares were different this time.” 

“Well, it could account for something I saw when I was in my lab earlier” Hank says. “There was some kind of tremor. Like an energy surge. I picked it up on one of my meters.” 

From his voice, Charles can tell that this is what Hank wanted to show him, but Hank is not walking towards his lab. Instead, he is walking towards Cerebro. The lights are turning on and Charles continues to reverse, in order to keep their conversation face to face. 

“You’re saying Jean created it?” He can’t quite mask his incredulity. 

“No, I’m saying something else did. Maybe she was reacting to it, I don’t know. But the epicentre was halfway around the world.” 

Hank says this is such an offhand manner, as though having measuring equipment that can detect unusual power surges from across the planet is nothing to speak of. But of course, to Hank, that is probably the case. 

“Halfway around the world?” 

It cannot be good, can it? 

“That’s why I was hoping you could take a look” Hank says, mere steps away from Cerebro’s door. And of course, Charles is intrigued. 

“Let’s see what we can find.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3  
> (And if you want to yell at me in the comments, please feel free! Encouragements, head canons and squeals all help fuel the writing xD)


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